The "Chiming Blade" lifted off to the accompaniment of howling wind and crashing waves. Verena was the pilot today. She guided the ship confidently, breaking through dense layers of clouds until they finally burst into the clarity of space. The ocean planet remained below — a blue sphere shrouded in white swirls of storms, holding its ancient secrets.
Alex sat beside her, examining the crystals they had acquired. They lay in a special container, gently pulsing in the Force. Soon, these crystals would become the hearts of their lightsabers, but first, there was long work ahead in tuning and synchronization.
"Home?" Verena asked, not taking her eyes off the instruments.
"Almost," Alex replied, studying the scanner readings. "But first, I want to check something."
He asked to direct the ship to the outer regions of the system, where the orbits of the planets ended and the void of interstellar space began. Long-range sensors had been showing an anomaly for several minutes — an artificial object drifting in the darkness.
As they approached, an image appeared on the screens. A hyperspace relay station.
It was ancient — that was evident even from a distance. Its spherical hull was covered with micrometeorite damage, the antennas were partially destroyed, and the solar panels had long ceased to function. It was silent, dead and forgotten, drifting in its orbit for many millennia.
"Rakatan?" Verena asked.
"Looks like it," Alex zoomed in. "The basic architecture matches. But..." he frowned, "there's something else. See these modules? They're not Rakatan. Someone modernized the station after the fall of the Infinite Empire."
He turned the ship, approaching the station. A plan was already forming in his mind.
"It wouldn't be bad to restore it," he said aloud. "It would be great to fly here without the Force. Navigation through the Force is effective, but tiring. And a permanent hyperspace beacon would make this route accessible to ordinary ships."
"Do we have a power core?" Verena asked.
Alex nodded.
"Yes. A crystal heart I took from one of the abandoned Rakatan stations. It's almost depleted, but it should provide enough power for basic functions. Not for continuous operation, of course, but for periodic activation — quite enough."
He donned his spacesuit and went out into open space. The ship's manipulators retrieved the crystal heart from the cargo hold — a cylinder the size of a human head, filled with complex crystalline matrices that stored energy at the quantum level. Rakatan technology was incredibly advanced, but even it was not eternal. This heart had been working for millennia and was running out.
Alex found a service hatch and opened it. Inside the station, it was dark and cold. He activated his flashlight and floated through the corridors, guided by the schematics of Rakatan stations he had studied over the past years.
The power compartment was in the center of the station. When Alex reached it, he stopped, surprised.
The old crystal heart had been removed. In its place was another power unit — not Rakatan. More modern, but still ancient. Alex recognized the design — technology used in the galaxy about seven thousand years ago. The fusion reactor was dead, but the very fact of its presence spoke volumes.
Someone had already modernized this station. A long time ago.
Alex carefully removed the old unit and installed the crystal heart. The connections didn't fit perfectly — he had to improvise, using adapters and bypass circuits — but eventually, he got the system working.
Activation.
The station came to life. Lights flickered along the corridors, weak and dim, but alive. The crystalline matrices glowed with a pale blue light. Alex felt a new resonance appear in the Force — weak, intermittent, but existing.
He connected to the control terminal. The interface was multi-layered — a basic Rakatan level, overlaid with later modifications. Alex began to study the system, navigating through layers of ancient code.
The crystal heart's energy would last for about two to three days of operation per year. Not much, but enough for navigation if the timing was calculated correctly. He programmed the station for periodic activation — once a standard month, for forty-eight hours. This would be enough to plot a course if he needed to return.
Then he turned to the logs.
The files were ancient, partially damaged, but restorable. Alex launched a data reconstruction program and began to read.
The station was modernized seven thousand two hundred and thirty-four years ago. The modernization was carried out by an expedition of an unknown civilization — in the logs, they were designated simply as "Navigators." They discovered an ancient Rakatan hyperspace relay network, partially restored it, and integrated it into their own navigation system.
Alex delved into the data. Coordinates. Hundreds of coordinates of other stations scattered across the Unknown Regions. He displayed them on a holographic map and froze, staring at the result.
The network was enormous. The stations formed a web, covering a significant portion of the Unknown Regions. Many were active—their signals pulsed faintly even now. The others were silent, dead or damaged.
He finished working with the station and returned to the ship. Verena met him with curiosity in her eyes.
"You took a long time," she said. "What did you find?"
"A map of hyperspace stations in the unknown regions," Alex said, removing his suit and heading to the cockpit. "The station was upgraded by someone seven thousand years ago. I found data about their navigation network."
He showed her the holographic map. Verena whistled.
"That's... impressive."
"Yes. I wonder who keeps it in working order?"
"Any ideas?"
"No. But I want to know more. Later." He sat in the pilot's seat. "For now, we're going back. But not the way we came."
"Why?"
"Precaution. I don't want to use the same route twice if I can avoid it. It's too easy to get ambushed." Alex activated the navigation computer. "We'll fly through the Batuu system. There's a smuggler outpost there. We'll resupply, gather information about the situation in the sector."
Verena nodded, and they once again immersed themselves in meditation.
The journey back was similar to the journey here—a series of jumps through the Unknown Regions, navigation through the Force, a dance between probabilities and dangers. But now they had experience, and the process went more smoothly, more naturally.
Eight hours later, they reached the Batuu system.
Batuu greeted them with a gray sky and the smell of dust.
The planet was bleak—a dry world on the edge of the Outer Rim, too far from major trade routes to be prosperous, but accessible enough not to be completely forgotten. Once, millennia ago, Batuu had been an important trade hub. Now it was a rundown haven for smugglers and those who wanted to disappear.
Alex guided the ship towards the largest settlement—the Outpost. The name was ironic—it had once been a frontier trading post, a thriving city. Now it was a collection of half-ruined buildings clustered around an ancient spaceport.
Their ship landed on one of the landing pads under the guise of a research vessel. Alex paid the fee—a symbolic sum that the local dispatcher didn't even bother to record officially.
They disembarked, and Alex immediately felt the atmosphere of the place. The Outpost was... tired. Buildings needed repair, streets were covered in dust, sentient beings moved slowly, without energy. Droids were almost invisible—perhaps one or two service droids for the entire spaceport area. All the work was done by living beings.
"Poor place," Verena said quietly, looking around.
"Forgotten," Alex corrected. "The galaxy moves on, and worlds like this are left behind."
They walked along the main street of the Outpost. Shops were half-empty, the goods on the shelves were mostly locally produced or old, long-outdated models of technology. Sentient beings looked at them with curiosity, but without much interest. Strangers were not uncommon here.
Behind one of the stalls, an old man sold tools—simple, mechanical, without electronics. Nearby, a woman traded hand-woven fabrics. Further on, a group of children played with wooden toys, not holographic projections or droids, but simple carved figures.
Alex noticed a small farm on the outskirts of the settlement—fields worked by hand, without agro-droids or automated machinery. People worked with hoes and shovels, like savages.
"Why are there so few droids here?" Verena asked quietly.
"Poverty," Alex replied. "Droids require maintenance, spare parts, energy. When the economy dies, droids disappear first. People return to subsistence farming, to simple technologies. Because it's cheaper."
He pointed to the farms outside the city.
"See? They grow food without automation, without advanced technology. They live practically by subsistence farming. They trade goods directly, without credits. The galactic economy has passed them by. Like our former miners on Tarsik."
Alex found what he was looking for—a small tavern on the edge of the market square. The sign read "Ongo's Lair," and inside it was dark and cool—a pleasant contrast to the heat outside.
Behind the bar stood a massive Ithorian, cleaning glasses. A few patrons sat at tables, talking quietly. Alex and Verena took a seat in the corner, and the Ithorian approached them.
"What will you have?" his voice was hoarse, tired.
"Two Lum-ale," Alex said. "And information."
The Ithorian grunted.
"Information is more expensive than ale."
Alex placed a credit chip on the table. The Ithorian glanced at the amount and nodded.
"What do you want to know about?"
"The situation in the sector. What's happening. Where it's best not to fly."
The Ithorian brought the drinks and sat opposite them, settling heavily into his chair.
"The sector is quiet," he said. "Too quiet. The Empire doesn't visit here—we have nothing to offer. Trade has almost died. Before, routes passed through Batuu, now everyone flies along the hyperspace lanes. We've been left aside."
He took a sip from his glass, and his gaze became distant, lost in memories.
"It used to be better," he continued. "Twenty years ago, maybe thirty. The Outpost was alive. Ships came and went, trade flowed, credits poured in. Now?" he gestured around the half-empty tavern. "Now we're dying. Slowly but surely."
"What happened?" Verena asked.
"The Clone Wars first," the Ithorian shrugged. "Then the Empire. They rerouted traffic to the hyperspace lanes, centralized trade. The old routes that passed through Batuu became unnecessary. Traders stopped coming. Work disappeared. Sentient beings started leaving."
He looked at them with a heavy gaze.
"For the last twenty years, things have only gotten worse. The youth are leaving—seeking a better life in the Core or the Colonies. Only we old folks, who have nowhere else to go, remain. Another ten years, and the Outpost will become a ghost town."
"Pirates?" Alex asked, changing the subject.
"They happen. But rarely. There's nothing to rob here." The Ithorian took a sip from his glass. "Although... there is one place you'd best not go. Endor. A system a few jumps from here. Lately, ships have been disappearing there. Ours. Smugglers'."
Alex tensed.
"Pirates?"
"Seems like it." The Ithorian shook his head. "Three have disappeared in the last two years. Good pilots, experienced ones. Not rookies who could have just crashed into an asteroid. Some pirate group has set up shop, apparently. Stay away from Endor if you don't want trouble."
"Understood. Thanks for the warning."
Alex made a mental note to avoid the Endor system. Whatever was happening there, he didn't need any additional complications.
As they were leaving the tavern, Alex noticed a figure sitting in the shadows by one of the half-ruined buildings opposite. The man was alone, his armor—recognizable Mandalorian beskar—was worn and scratched, bearing the marks of countless battles. But what caught Alex's attention was that his helmet lay on the ground next to him.
The Mandalorian was drinking from a mug, his face exposed. He was about forty, maybe a little older. Scars crossed his left cheek and eyebrow, and gray was starting to show in his dark hair.
Alex stopped, studying him. The Mandalorian felt his gaze and turned his head, meeting his eyes.
"What?" his voice was hoarse, with a slight accent.
"Nothing," Alex shrugged. "I've just only seen Mandalorians in helmets before. They say you're forbidden to take them off."
The Mandalorian chuckled—a short, humorless sound.
"I'm not a Mandalorian anymore," he said and took a sip from his mug.
Alex exchanged a glance with Verena, then walked closer. The man didn't move, but his posture changed almost imperceptibly—ready for action if needed.
"May I join you?" Alex asked, gesturing to the empty spot beside him.
The Mandalorian shrugged.
"Free galaxy."
Alex sat down, Verena remained standing, observing the surroundings. The Mandalorian offered him a mug. Alex took it, took a sip—strong moonshine, locally produced, it burned his throat—and returned it.
"Alex Corren," he introduced himself.
"Kardis," the Mandalorian replied after a pause. "Formerly of Clan Vay."
"Formerly," Alex repeated. "That sounds like a story."
Kardis chuckled again, looking at the dusty street before him.
"Everyone has stories. Most of them aren't worth telling."
They fell silent. Alex felt that there was more to this man than just exile or departure. There was pain, deep and old, but also strength. Kardis was not broken—he was tempered.
"Looking for a mercenary?" Kardis finally asked, not looking at Alex. "Or just curious?"
"And are you looking for work?" Alex parried.
Kardis turned to him, studying him with a professional gaze.
"Can find anyone? Kill them?" he spoke matter-of-factly, as if discussing the weather. "I can still do what I was taught. Even if I don't wear the helmet anymore."
Alex pondered. Before him sat an experienced warrior, a Mandalorian—albeit a former one. Such sentient beings were rare. And valuable.
"I have a job," he said slowly. "But it's not a one-off. An indefinite contract. I need to train my people. Combat skills, tactics, survival."
Kardis frowned.
"Train?"
"Yes." Alex nodded. "I have an organization. Growing. We need instructors who can turn ordinary people into real fighters. You're suitable."
"Travel?" Kardis asked. "I don't like staying in one place."
"It will be limited," Alex answered honestly. "At least at first. There are reasons for that. Security. Mine and my people's. But the conditions will be good. Pay, housing, equipment. And a purpose. Not just killing for credits."
Kardis was silent, looking at his helmet lying beside him. Alex saw something struggling within him—pride, doubt, perhaps hope.
"I need to think," the Mandalorian finally said.
Alex took out a small card—a simple chip with an encrypted communication frequency.
"If you decide to," he handed it to Kardis. "The communication is protected. Only you and I."
Kardis took the card, examined it, then hid it in one of the pockets on his belt.
"Maybe," he said vaguely.
Alex stood up, nodded to him.
"Good luck, Kardis. I hope we meet again."
He and Verena returned to the ship.
As the "Singing Blade" lifted into the air and set course for orbit, Verena asked:
"Do you think he'll agree?"
"I don't know," Alex shrugged. "But I need him. Mandalorians are the best warriors in the galaxy. Their training methods, their culture... that's what can make my people stronger."
They had already left Batuu's atmosphere when the communicator signaled. An incoming message. Alex opened it—text, short and direct.
"Agreed. Where to fly?"
Alex allowed himself to smile.
"Wait. Someone from me will arrive for you. In about a week. They'll ask a couple of questions. Be ready for a long journey."
The reply came almost instantly:
"Understood."
Alex turned off the communicator and leaned back in his chair. Mandalorians preserved knowledge of war, survival, honor, and strength that had been passed down for millennia. Kardis could be a bridge to that culture.
And Alex needed every advantage he could get.
"Are you going to study their culture?" Verena asked, as if reading his thoughts.
"Yes," Alex nodded. "Mandalorians have survived for millennia, fought Jedi, Sith, empires. They know something that makes them strong. I want to understand what exactly."
"And use it."
"And use it," he agreed.
The ship jumped into hyperspace, leaving Batuu behind. Alex set the course for the next point on the route.
Hoth.
The ice planet greeted them with whiteness and cold.
Alex guided the ship towards the Alliance base coordinates, using the access codes that Garrek had given him. The base was well-camouflaged—built into ice caves, protected by an energy shield and turbolaser batteries. Sensors showed significant expansion since his last visit—new hangars, living modules, warehouses.
The Alliance was growing.
They were met at the landing pad. Alex recognized a few faces—technicians, pilots he had seen before.
A communications officer, a man named Torin, approached him with a serious expression.
"Corren," he said. "I need to inform you... Garrek is dead. Four days ago."
Alex froze. The words reached him, but he couldn't accept them. Garrek. Uncle Garrek. The last of his family. The man who had practically raised him. And he learned of his death so casually.
"How?" his voice sounded alien, detached.
"Heart attack." Torin spoke softly, sympathetically. "He was in the hangar, checking one of the fighters. He just... fell. Medics tried to revive him, but it was too late. He was seventy-five. His heart couldn't take it."
Alex felt Verena take his hand. He squeezed her palm, clinging to that touch like an anchor.
"Where is he?" Alex asked. "I want to... say goodbye."
"We've frozen the body," Torin said. "We knew you'd want to say goodbye."
Alex nodded, not trusting his voice.
"General Dodonna wants to see you," Torin said. "When you're ready."
"Now," Alex forced himself to pull himself together. "I'm ready."
Verena walked beside him, silently supporting him. They walked through the base corridors to the command center. General Jan Dodonna met them in his office—a small room filled with holographic projectors and tactical displays.
Dodonna was an elderly man with gray hair and tired but sharp eyes. He stood up when Alex entered.
"Corren," he said. "My condolences."
"Thank you," Alex sat in the offered chair. Verena sat in the adjacent one.
"I know this is difficult news for you," Dodonna continued, "but we need to discuss matters. Garrek was responsible for the logistics of supplies from your enterprises. Now, I suppose, a new person is needed."
Alex nodded.
"Yes, I'll send someone. I'm ready to continue the supplies. Moreover, I want to expand them." He activated his datapad and transferred a file to Dodonna. "Hyperdrive engines for fighters. I can supply up to fifty units per month. Class 1.0, reliable."
Dodonna studied the data, and his eyebrows rose.
"That's... significant. Where do you have access to such resources?"
"I have connections," Alex replied evasively. "The details aren't important. What's important is that I can supply it."
Dodonna paused, contemplating.
"Good. The Alliance desperately needs hyperdrive engines. Half of our fighters are flying with outdated engines of class 2.0 or worse."
"There's something else," Alex leaned forward. "If the Empire discovers Hoth, you'll be trapped."
"We have evacuation plans," Dodonna began, but Alex interrupted him.
"Have more." He activated the holographic projector and displayed a map of the galaxy. "Look. Hoth is on the edge of known space. That's good for stealth, but bad for logistics. If you have to evacuate, you'll have a limited number of escape routes. The Empire can easily block them."
He highlighted several systems on the map.
"You need backup bases. Not full-fledged ones like this, but outposts. Places where you can hide, regroup, get supplies." He handed Dodonna several files. "I've prepared hyperspace routes. Safe, tested. They lead to systems where the Empire has no presence."
Dodonna studied the data, and his expression became increasingly thoughtful.
"This is valuable information," he finally said. "Why are you doing this, Corren? You're not a member of the Alliance. What do you get in return?"
Alex paused, then looked Dodonna directly in the eyes.
"It's in my interest," he said calmly. "You received those files, didn't you? About the Empire's plans, fleet movements, secret projects."
Dodonna nodded.
"Yes. They were extremely useful. Where..."
"I sent them," Alex interrupted. "Luthen Reiel was my friend. We started this together. He believed in what the Alliance was doing. And I believed him. Not in your ideals, perhaps, not in your politics. But in the fact that the Empire must be stopped."
He leaned forward.
"I have resources. Information. Technology. Connections. I can help the Alliance be more effective, stronger. It benefits me because the stronger the Alliance, the more it distracts the Empire. And the more distracted the Empire is, the less attention it pays to me and my affairs."
Dodonna looked at him with a long, appraising gaze.
"Pragmatic," he finally said. "But honest. I appreciate honesty, Corren. Too many come to us with high ideals that crumble at the first test. You, at least, don't pretend."
"The Alliance's goals," Alex said. "Coincide with mine."
"Then we understand each other," Dodonna extended his hand, and Alex shook it.
They discussed details—delivery schedules, transfer points, communication codes. Alex also mentioned that he would prepare a supply base on Ord Mantell—warehouses, repair facilities, fuel. He would provide the coordinates and access codes in a month.
The meeting lasted about an hour, and when they finished, Alex felt tired. Not physically, but emotionally.
"I want to see Garrek," he said as they left Dodonna's office. "Before..."
Torin escorted them to the medical bay. There, in one of the cryo-chambers, lay Garrek. His body was frozen, preserved for transport.
Alex stood before the chamber, looking at his body. It didn't look like Garrek, it didn't look like the man he knew. Just a mechanism that had stopped working. That's how it felt. But he wanted to say goodbye to him.
"We'll take him," Alex said quietly. "Bury him at home."
Torin nodded.
"We'll help with the transport to the ship."
As they passed one of the hangars, Alex heard a familiar voice.
"Alex!"
He turned and saw Luke emerging from the hangar. The young pilot was in an orange jumpsuit and looked tired but cheerful.
"Luke," Alex nodded to him.
"I heard about Garrek," Luke said, approaching. His face became serious. "I'm so sorry. He was a good man."
"Thank you," Alex forced himself to smile. "Did you know him well?"
"A little. He helped me with my fighter. Taught me some maintenance tricks." Luke paused. "He talked about you a lot. Was proud of you."
Alex felt a lump in his throat but swallowed it.
"This is Verena," he said, changing the subject.
"Nice to meet you," Luke extended his hand, and Verena shook it.
"Likewise," she said. "Alex told me about you. Said you're a good pilot."
"I try," Luke smiled, then looked at Alex. "And where's your old ship? The 'Wanderer'? I saw you arrived on a different vessel."
"Had to sacrifice it," Alex replied. "In a skirmish. The new ship is better. Want to see it?"
Luke's eyes lit up.
"Of course!"
They walked to the landing pad where the "Singing Blade" was parked. Luke stopped, looking at the ship with admiration.
"This is... incredible," he whispered. "What class is it?"
"Custom build," Alex said.
They boarded, and Alex gave Luke a brief tour. The young pilot was amazed—he examined every detail, asked questions about the systems, the specifications.
When they reached the cockpit, Luke noticed a military neuro-interface on the console. Alex cursed inwardly—he had forgotten to put the device away after the last use.
"What's this?" Luke asked, picking up the interface.
"A training device," Alex replied quickly. "For... improving reflexes."
Luke studied the interface intently, and his face became thoughtful.
"I've seen something like this before," he said slowly. "Ben used a similar device when he was training me."
Alex tensed.
"Ben?"
"Ben Kenobi." Luke looked at him. "He was a Jedi. Lived on Tatooine, where I grew up. He taught me to feel the Force, to dodge blaster fire with my eyes closed. He used a helmet like this to block my vision."
Alex became interested. Obi-Wan Kenobi. A general from the war. A Jedi.
"You should probably talk less about things like this," Alex said quietly. "The fewer people know about it, the better. The Empire hunts Jedi."
"Ben is dead," Luke said, and sadness entered his voice. "Vader killed him on the Death Star."
"Even more so. Don't draw attention to yourself." Alex took the interface from Luke's hands. An excellent reason to get the guy to open up. "Are you a Jedi?"
"No," Luke shook his head. "I've only just begun training. Ben didn't have time to teach me much. But I can feel the Force. Sometimes. When I'm piloting, I know where to fly, when to shoot. It helps."
"I see." Alex hesitated, then made up his mind. "Were you taught to dodge? Show me."
Luke nodded enthusiastically.
"Of course!"
Alex adjusted the interface to basic mode—a simple evasion program that projected virtual threats and required quick reactions. Luke put on the device, and Alex activated the program.
But at the same time, he activated another function—deep scanning. The device began to read brain activity patterns, analyze neural connections, even detect implanted memories or mental programs.
Alex watched the data on his datapad as Luke went through the training. The young pilot was good—his reactions were fast, intuitive. The Force was definitely guiding him.
But there was something else.
Alex frowned, studying the scans. There were anomalies in Luke's brain—small areas of neural activity that didn't match natural patterns. They were too ordered, too structured.
Mental bookmarks.
Someone had implanted programs into Luke's consciousness. Not crudely, not obviously—it was subtle work, almost imperceptible. But Alex could see them. Triggers that activated under certain conditions. Information that surfaced at the right moment.
One of the bookmarks was particularly interesting. It contained coordinates. Alex copied them, then quickly deactivated the scan and the program.
Luke took off the interface, smiling.
"That was cool!" he said. "I felt the Force guiding me. Ben said you have to trust your instincts, and it really works."
"Yes," Alex replied absently. "You did well."
He wanted to end this conversation. Quickly. Luke was... a complication. Someone was manipulating him, implanting programs into his mind, just as Kreia had once manipulated him. Most likely, Kenobi. But why? What game was the old Jedi playing? He had to help the guy, but not now. He needed to figure things out first.
"I need to fly," Alex said, standing up. "Business. You understand."
"Of course," Luke also stood up. "Thank you for showing me the ship. And... again, I'm sorry about Garrek."
"Thank you," Alex escorted him to the airlock. "We'll see each other again, Luke."
When the young pilot left, Alex closed the airlock and leaned against the wall, exhaling.
"What happened?" Verena asked, approaching him.
"Trouble," Alex showed her the datapad with the scan results. "The guy has mental programs in his head, just like me. Someone put them there."
Verena frowned, studying the data.
"What do they do?"
"They guide him. Give him information at the right moments. One of the programs contains coordinates." Alex brought them up on the screen. "I don't know what's there, but I bet it's important."
"Are you going to fly there?"
"No," Alex said decisively. "Whatever it is, it's part of the Jedi game. I don't want to get involved. I have enough problems of my own."
The cryo-chamber with Garrek's body was loaded into the cargo hold of the "Ringing Blade." Alex personally checked all systems—temperature, airtightness, power supply. Everything had to be perfect.
The farewell to the base was short. Dodonna shook his hand, a few pilots nodded. Garrek was known and appreciated here.
They lifted off from the icy surface of Hoth. Alex cast a last glance at the planet—a white ball, cold and lifeless.
The journey took three days. Alex flew cautiously, avoiding main routes, using detours. Verena sat beside him, silently supporting him with her presence.
When they reached Tersik, the sun was already setting. Alex landed the ship on the outskirts of a small forest.
They unloaded the cryo-chamber and deactivated it. Garrek's body thawed slowly, and after a few hours, they were able to transfer him to a specially prepared funeral pyre.
Alex himself stacked the firewood—an old custom, widespread throughout the galaxy among those who could afford it. It was believed that fire freed the spirit, returning the person to the stars.
When everything was ready, Alex stood before the pyre. Verena stood beside him, holding his hand.
"Garrek," Alex began, his voice trembling. "You were the last of my family. You taught me to survive, to fight, not to give up, supported my hobbies when I was a child, and taught me how to avoid trouble when I grew up. You accepted me when I was left alone."
He paused, gathering his thoughts.
"I don't know if there's anything after death. I don't know if you can hear me. But if you can... thank you. For everything. You were a good person and meant a lot to me. Goodbye."
Alex thought about how life passes and another part of his past was gone with his uncle. He was sad that Garrek was no more, but he wasn't going to give a long speech. What he felt and thought was enough. He took a pre-prepared torch and held it to the firewood. The fire flared up, quickly growing, engulfing the pyre. The flames danced in the twilight, casting long shadows.
Alex and Verena stood watching the fire consume Garrek's body. Smoke rose into the sky, carried away by the wind. Stars began to appear in the darkening sky—cold, distant, eternal.
"He was a good sentient," Verena said quietly.
"Yes," Alex nodded. "One of the best."
They stood until the pyre burned down to embers. Then Alex collected the ashes in a simple urn, and later scattered them over a lake.
It was the right place.
He sat in the living module by the window, looking at the stars. Verena entered quietly and sat beside him.
"How are you?" she asked.
"I don't know," Alex answered honestly. "Empty. And sad."
Verena hugged him, and he leaned against her, closing his eyes.
"He was proud of you," she whispered. "Of who you've become. Of what you're doing."
"I hope so," Alex sighed. "I just... wanted to say goodbye. I couldn't say goodbye to my parents once. I wanted to tell him something."
"He heard you," Verena kissed his temple. "Believe me, he heard you."
They sat like that for a long time, in silence, finding comfort in each other's presence.
Later, Alex opened the datapad and studied the data he had extracted from Luke's mind. The coordinates led to the Dagobah system—a swampy world in the Outer Rim, practically uninhabited.
He launched a database search. There was little information about Dagobah—the planet was of no strategic interest, had no resources, and was not inhabited. A perfect place to hide.
Alex opened the file with the mental program and began to analyze it. It was a complex construction—multilayered, with triggers and activation conditions. A heavily truncated holocron right in the guy's brain. The program was set to activate when Luke reached a certain level of Force sensitivity. Then it would give him the coordinates and... knowledge. The understanding that a teacher awaited him there on Dagobah.
Yoda.
Alex leaned back, contemplating. Master Yoda, the greatest Jedi of his time, was hiding on Dagobah. Kenobi had prepared Luke to find Yoda and complete his training.
It was a long-term game. A plan calculated over years. The Jedi could foresee even such probabilities. Kenobi was dead, but his plan continued to work, guiding Luke on the right path.
Clever. Very clever. And very dangerous.
Alex didn't want to deal with Yoda. The ancient Jedi was too perceptive, too powerful. He could see in Alex what he preferred to hide.
No. Better to stay away.
Alex left the program in his datapad's memory, separately saving the coordinates in an encrypted archive. Just in case. Information is power, and you never know when it might come in handy.
He closed the datapad and looked out the window.
"Thank you, Uncle," Alex whispered into the darkness. "For everything."
The stars did not answer. But Alex felt that his words had been heard.
Somewhere. Somehow.
The departed remain in eternity. In memory. In the heart. In who we became thanks to them. In the consequences of their actions.
And that, perhaps, is the best monument one can erect.